


First Things First

by kinpika



Series: lyrium high [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: But with some liberties, Similar to mage origin in game, origin fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 01:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: “No,” Basilia responds. “I don’t wish to bind myself to such a company as the Grey Wardens for freedom.”Every hero has their origin story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something of an origin story for my main warden!

Basilia didn’t know what the time was, when the doors to the Harrowing Chamber finally opened. Strung between two templars — one she recognised as Cullen, the other still wearing their helm — was Ambrose. Ashen and not at all conscious, head lolling to the side at the call of his name. Forbidden to speak of the Harrowing, and Basilia had tried as hard as she could to prepare him for such a thing, but they must have known, to bring it on so suddenly, and so late at night.

Only hours before, several of the other apprentices had rushed to her quarters, waking up not only Basilia herself, but those sleeping nearby. When the youngest of the group, Trisha, finally managed to get a word in about Ambrose, Basilia had dressed in half the time it had taken, and rushed off with them not far behind. Had it not been for Tarquin, allowing her through the Templar quarters with little more than a bow and a ‘stay close’, she would not have made it at all.

And now, she trailed after the templars, catching only a passing glance from Irving as she did so. Perhaps Greagoir was going to make some comment, about how she had managed to get through the fourth floor unscathed, but Basilia had no time for such things. No magic could touch Ambrose, it would be his own willpower alone to wake himself from the slumber after. 

“Be careful with him,” she found herself reminding the templars, as they went down the stairs. Ambrose was not the skin and bones he had been when first brought to the Circle, but a bruise was still a bruise. A broken bone was still a broken bone. 

There’s no response, not even a grunt that she had been heard, and perhaps any other day, Basilia would’ve been annoyed at the indifference. But they were getting closer, and those who had woken her were readying Ambrose’s bed in the hopes that he would return. He needs a haircut, she could only muse, a smile managing to make its way onto her face, when she noticed how his hair brushed his collar.

Finally, they made it to the Apprentice Quarters. Basilia picks up her pace, walking ahead of them now, hands throwing the doors open. Thankfully, only a few faces seemed to turn from the bunks, the rest maintaining a careful silence. The templars may not notice the dozens of faces, staring at them from under their blankets, holding their breath and waiting for them to leave, but Basilia did. Cullen and the other templar moved to the bunk Basilia pointed out, and she quickly waved one particular apprentice down. Don’t draw attention, she had told them earlier. Pretend to be asleep.

“Leave. I’ll finish this.” Maker, from the way they were struggling to get Ambrose down, it was like they had never heard of the concept of a bed. Thankfully, the other nameless templar said a particular series of curses, but left. Basilia almost didn’t notice Cullen still lingering, as she went to remove Ambrose’s shoes, until she heard the clink of armour.

“I told you to leave.”

Cullen, in his defence, was likely not expecting Basilia to be waiting where she had been. Hands raised, a sign of peace and no offence, enough to draw a series of noises from apprentices who should have still been pretending to be asleep. “I’m sorry, I just. I wanted to make sure…”

“We’ll find out in the morning, Ser Cullen. It would be best if you left now.”

There were only so many ways Basilia could tell him to leave, short of an absolute threat, but that would not bode well for anyone. “He needs to rest,” she reminded him, unfolding the blanket over Ambrose. It was the best she would be able to do, short of stripping him and dressing him herself, but she didn’t want to deal with the argument from Ambrose later, that he was no longer a child. 

No, she thought gently, holding a hand in her own, thumb running lightly over the back of his, no, he wasn’t anymore.

“Leave, Cullen. I won’t say it again.”

If he went to say anything else, he decided against it. A bow, that spoke more of his age than any understanding of his position, and the door shut behind him. Basilia counted exactly to twenty; twenty steps for the sound of templars to fade away, before half a dozen apprentices swarmed on her. 

Despite her attempts to hush them, lest they draw attention from any templars on patrol, they continued to clamour over each other. “He won’t wake,” Basilia insisted, tucking the blanket around Ambrose. “We have to be patient.”

Placing her hand on his forehead, Basilia could feel how his skin remained cool. Brows furrowed, Ambrose was deeply asleep, not at all responsive to the commotion around him. Questions fired, some about how long it would take for him to wake, others about the Harrowing itself. It was a slow start, a worry that spread from one of the younger ones, to others, more excited to prove themselves. 

Basilia bites her tongue. Not allowed to confirm or deny such talk was hard enough as Ambrose’s Harrowing had drawn closer. Her student, as much as she loved him dearly, was a nuisance. Believing himself to have passed the age of which a Harrowing was acceptable, Ambrose had been by her desk for the last two weeks, throwing every argument in her face about how he was ‘ready to prove himself’, that Basilia herself was thrown in so young so why shouldn’t he be, and coupled with a comment or two about showing those in the Circle what an elven mage was capable of.

She cannot stop her hands from brushing the hair from his face, smoothing the growing frown before it became stuck. Ambrose would show them, of course he would. Mages were looked down on, feared, awed. But the elves? Those with such innate abilities that humans would never quite understand their differences, were a whole other field of — what exactly? The envy in some of the other enchanters’ voices was common, a nasally complaint of ‘they managed that then, why haven’t I?’. Or, it was the classes later at night, theorising with others of the same interest, on Tevinter’s preoccupation with _the blood_. Always under watch, of course, lest they stray into territories not approved.

Pushing herself to stand, Basilia pats the head of one of those closest to her. “Come find me when he wakes. Until then, back to bed. All of you.”

Basilia does not leave the quarters until all of the apprentices were back in their bunks, huddled under their blankets. Eyes eventually wink out in the candlelight; a farewell until tomorrow. Under her hand, etched into the wood, was her name. Next to it was Ambrose’s. 

With a wave of her hand, darkness falls over the room, and she finally takes her leave.


	2. Chapter 2

As opposed to the rush of voices last night, the ones to wake her later in the morning was softer, hushed. Timid with the “Basilia?” leaving them, a hand rustling her shoulder just enough to finally wake her. Basilia frowns into the light, young apprentices missing out on classes beside her bed, and the events from earlier in the morning come back to her.

“Is Ambrose awake?” she asks, finally swinging her legs over the side of her bed. Maker, she felt like she hadn’t fallen asleep at all, so worried with Ambrose’s wellbeing. It _scared_ her, with just how small he had looked, tucked into his cot. First and only apprentice, and she had nearly lost him. Basilia didn’t know how she would live with herself, after practically raising the boy. 

Ignoring the looks the apprentices give each other, Basilia reaches for clothing, beginning to dress. They turned, facing the wall, and finally speak.

“Irving asked for you.” 

“Of course he did,” she sighs, a little more annoyance in her tone than she meant to have. No doubt, it would be relayed back that she had been outside the Chamber, getting through the Quarters once again. That was fine, it would only be another slap on the wrist. 

Besides, there were bigger thing to contend with than an enchanter worrying for their apprentice.

Dressed, hair swept up, face washed, and Basilia was off. At her heels, the apprentices followed, comments about the Harrowing, the Blight, the King. A Warden in the Tower? she catches, enough to raise a brow on her face, and for an apprentice to elaborate.

“He arrived early this morning by himself. His armour’s all shiny and he was carrying a sword and—”

“Felicia said they’re _recruiting_! Grey Wardens are so exciting!”

“Yeah, but griffons died out. They’re not _that_ interesting anymore.”

“But they fight and save the land and battle creatures and there’s _dragons!”_

Basilia does smile at that, the sheer excitement in their voices at such a prospect. Ushering them back to their lessons, with an apologetic smile at their teacher for the day, she leaves quickly. Perhaps she could find Ambrose before seeing Irving. There was not very many places an apprentice could hide on the first floor, and Basilia would know, as she had made a personal effort to find those places.

And then she walks straight into another apprentice.

“Ah, Jowan.” 

She does not mean to drop the name like she does, but it does not stop her expression from collapsing. If anything, it simply encouraged it. Whilst she had promised not to meddle with Ambrose’s life outside his education, she had made her thoughts on _this_ particular choice of a friend apparent. Snivelling and bowed almost in half, by Andraste herself, Basilia had never seen such a sorry sight.

“I—I was just checking on Ambrose. He had his Harrowing last night.”

“I am aware.” Crossing her arms over her chest, Basilia narrows her eyes. Amongst the enchanters, there had been particular talks about those ready for the next level of education, and those who weren’t. Whilst Harrowing choices were at the discretion of the templars, almost exclusively, they did have the ability to convince them either way. 

And if Jowan knew just how much of a target he had over his head, to give an excuse not to make him a full-fledged mage, if what Sweeney was saying was to be given any thought, well. They could only assume it would go the worst way.

Unpredictable, was the word most closely associated with Jowan, and not in a positive connotation. An irritation, was a word provided by other apprentices. 

“Irving asked to see him.”

“It seems Irving wishes to see a lot of people today.” Jowan seems to perk up at such a remark, and Basilia simply moves past him. “Is he dressed? I’ll escort him.”

Opening the door, Basilia allows two apprentices to run under her arm as she looks around. Ambrose’s bed lay empty, sheets spilled onto the floor. Perhaps the knowledge that he was awake and well hadn’t quite settled in, but with several more steps into the quarters, at the yawn from the left side of the room, she turned, and nearly cried.

“Basilia?”

“Ambrose.”

There’s something on his face too, a sheer relief, maybe, and he has his arms around her first. Practically enveloping him, Basilia buries her face in his hair, and focuses on not letting tears fall. A weight leaves her shoulders, throwing off her balance, but Ambrose was alive, well and _warm_ in her arms. Finally, she pulls back, if only to pepper his face in kisses. 

“Alright, alright! Ge’off!” 

Laughter leaves her, as Basilia finally releases him. Something in his manner had changed, with how he smoothed his robes, fixed his hair. Ah, she realised what it was. He was a _mage_ now, no longer her apprentice. All the adult, with none of responsibility. Basilia found it adorable, with just how Ambrose puffed himself up in front of her.

“You were worried, weren’t you? The others told me you _cried_.”

Pinching his cheeks, Basilia didn’t answer. Instead, she opted for the “Irving needs to see us, you ratbag.” 

Ambrose smiles, watery and tired. Something in his face hints towards a fear, deep-seated and still existent, even as the day broke and his eyes opened. Later they could talk about what he had seen. Basilia would finally be able to share her experience, about how Pride still lingered, waiting for the moment to strike. How she had almost taken the offered hand, all for the promise of family.

It’s when Jowan clears his throat, that they both look at him. She let Ambrose go, if only because she saw the way his face twisted, already throwing her off. Of course, she had been there. And Ambrose was the closest she had to raising a child of her own, after losing so many to the Chantry, but it did still hurt. 

Running off to walk side by side with Jowan, Ambrose didn’t look back. So Basilia could only trail behind, hands clasped in front of her. Onward to Irving’s office. Looks and whispers followed, and how could they not in such a small community. Another successful apprentice, and it was getting rarer to find the faults amongst the crowd. How worrisome, Basilia could only think, taking smaller steps so as to not overtake Ambrose and Jowan when they made it to the second floor. If too many got confident they would be able to pass, only bad things could happen.

At Irving’s door, Basilia could see Greagoir on the other side too. “Jowan,” she finally says, looking towards where Ambrose and Jowan huddled together. “Ambrose can speak to you after. I fear we may be a little late.”

Basilia makes herself apparent, Irving noticing her in the doorway after a moment. Motioning in the direction of Ambrose, he seemed to understand, pushing off his desk to walk towards the door. “It seems our newest mage has arrived, Greagoir.”

Both Ambrose and Jowan freeze at the way Greagoir follows Irving. A knee-jerk reaction, no doubt, to the presence of such a templar as Gregoir. But Irving has his eyes trained on Jowan the entire time. Basilia only noticed when Jowan finally decides to slink away, a “see you later” directed towards Ambrose. 

Whatever mood had arisen in the moment shattered when Irving clapped his hands twice, absolute delight on his face when looking at Ambrose. Arm around Ambrose’s shoulders, he leads him into his office, Greagoir not far behind. Basilia does not listen to the usual humdrum of introductions to the newly appointed mage. 

Instead, her eyes remained trained on how Jowan almost walked into a man in armour that caught the light of the hallway. _Silverite_ , was the first word her mind provided, _Warden_ being the second. Even though the apprentices had told her so, Basilia had thought it to be idle chatter. A passing fascination because there was no feasible way for a man outside the Chantry to enter the Tower. Surely not even the Wardens themselves would come to them.  

And yet, here was one, bowing once he was closer to where Basilia was standing.


	3. Chapter 3

Ambrose had left, Jowan hot on his trail. Basilia had taken up residence behind the second desk in Irving’s office, if only at an attempt to sort through the large pile of papers while old men continued to argue. Only Duncan, the Warden, had maintained a steady silence, watching the both of them.

When he rests a hand on the desk, only then does Basilia acknowledge the argument sweeping the room. “Yes?”

“What do you think?”

“About what in particular, Ser Duncan?” Careful, careful. Reminding herself of what words to be said, lest the walls repeat it back later. There was only so much they could whisper before the Sword of Mercy would come into view. Basilia had seen it happen once, and only _once —_ and that was more than enough times.

Perhaps he had cottoned on to her being purposely vague. But he smiled, small and at the corner of his mouth. Basilia could almost consider him handsome, if there wasn’t just such an unpleasant feeling about him (the blood, _it’s the blood_ ). Unsettling her, in much the same way of how Greagoir and Irving had purposely positioned themselves in the room. Something quite disconcerting about men making themselves appear larger than they were, as if trying to throw her off balance. 

But Duncan would potentially be the better. Wardens were apparently great fighters, feared and respected. But would that save him, or them? “The King asking for more mages to assist in the battle.”

“At Ostagar? If he has asked, then it should be considered.”

“‘Considered’?”

Tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, Basilia finally looks at him directly. Such strange eyes, not like the usual ones seen around the Tower, addled by age or lyrium, mage and templar alike. “The King does not order the Chantry, nor does the Chantry order the King. Or so we’ve been told.”

“But what do you believe, then?”

An odd question to be asked, considering the correct answer was ‘the Maker’. Nothing had been asked of her in such a way, not the conversations into the late hours with other apprentices, huddled under blankets and thinking about life outside. Not in the debates with other enchanters from all kinds of Circles, all walks of life. Nor even when she had been assigned to some nobles in Highever for a few years, a live-in mage as it were. 

“I don’t know,” she answers, and that was the truth. “If this is truly as big of a problem than all suggest, then let the mages help. But if you are here simply to find yourself another Warden, be done with it. I would have thought the best and brightest had already been sent to Ostagar, so this could be a waste of time when there are others out there, meant to be recruited.”

Duncan’s face does not move, as he finally takes his hand off the table. Curiouser and curiouser indeed, with how the expression does not break, does not change, only when Irving finally addresses him directly. Something about Greagoir showing him to his quarters, now that Ambrose had made himself scarce. Supposed to be one last job for the boy before he truly settled into magehood. And at that, Basilia had to correct herself. Young man, Ambrose was no longer just a boy. A capable, strong young man.

When Greagoir and Duncan leave, Irving gives them no time before turning to Basilia. “What are your thoughts, my child?” he asked, in the way he always did. Voice soft and disarming, although he was the strongest force in the room. 

Always scrambling Basilia’s defences when she was least expecting it. Never mind she was going on in her thirties. ‘Child’. “On the entire day, or just now?”

The corner of Irving’s mouth quirks as the dismissiveness in her tone, but he says nothing. Of course he wouldn’t. Basilia has to stop herself from sighing, and drags another book in front of her, just to give her hands something to do. “I assume that Ambrose is the mage you are hoping to catch the Warden’s eye. And I doubt the templars are pleased with such a thing so close to his Harrowing, either.”

“Do you agree?” 

Agree with _what_ , Basilia did think, but did not voice. Instead, raising her eyes to stare Irving down, she responds. “That he should be a Warden? Irving, I don’t _know._ ” And that was the truth of it all. She hadn’t even had time to contend with her own feelings for the day. “He’s barely been a fully fledged mage for a day. Ambrose is young and impulsive. It could be a great opportunity, or a huge failure. And, it’s not my decision to make for him.”

Irving grunts, not entirely impressed with her response. Basilia could see that, from how he moved around the room, a sweep of his hands to send some books back to the shelf. Classic movements to show how Basilia had seemed to disappoint him once more. She had seen enough of it growing up herself to ignore the actions, and focus on finding a particular page on Wardens in her book.

“Will they conscript him?”

“If they have to, I believe they would.”

“How courageous. The templars would be _beside_ themselves.” Basilia lowers her voice to a murmur at that. “All this drama over one little mage.”

Eventually, she finds the page. Kept in a good condition due to the magic still binding it, Basilia traces her finger over words. “Mages are quite important to the Wardens, aren’t they?”

Irving does not respond, going about his own business. Yet that does not deter Basilia, now having a point to be made. “Do you think they regularly recruit from Circles, or are we just special.”

“They believe it _is_ a Blight, Basilia.”

Using her name meant that he was regarding her with some level of equality, and an interest in her path of questioning. “Then we should not be playing cloak and dagger with conscriptions, Irving.”

Something on his face tells her that she’s overstepped. Not on his terms, but those they lived under. Basilia understood, of course she did. Were he able to, Irving would send more, if only to give some mages a chance for freedom. It begged the age old question of whether Irving had stepped outside the Circle for more than political purposes. She does not ask, again pushing that thought aside for another day. _Another day,_ simply because they had so many to look forward to.

At the cusp of comfortable silence, Irving finally speaks. “Would you ever consider becoming a Warden to leave this place?”

Such a strange notion, to ask if she would leave. Basilia had considered it, of course. Countless times, before the Harrowing, before her first, second and third child. All the times in between. A life outside the Circle was something craved, late at night, when the chill of the Tower managed to sneak through two pairs of socks. It was the knowledge, that outside the walls that contained her, she had a mother, a father. Maybe siblings. People who would remember her, and not leave her as just a name recorded in Circle books, to collect dust one day and be forgotten the next. 

“No,” Basilia responds. “I don’t wish to bind myself to such a company as the Grey Wardens for freedom.”

Irving’s face flashes an emotion Basilia doesn’t understand. Or one that she didn’t want to see, making her uneasy. A suggestion sits there, at the corner of Irving’s eye, and she wants to bang her hands on the table, yell ‘no’. Why was this the only way for her to go? Highever was asking for her once more. If there was not the war in Ostagar, she would have been _there_.

A knock at the door. Discussion over. “Ambrose?” she asks, voice rising in confusion. 

Ambrose had returned, almost smelling of something brewing, uncertainty making him vibrate. Slapping a form down in front of her, Basilia has to raise her brows. “‘Rod of Fire’? Ambrose, we looked at this form of magic years ago.”

“It’s not for me.”

That has her look not at Ambrose, but at Irving. A look crosses her face that was mirrored on his. “Is that so,” is all she manages, taking the form a little closer. It was crumpled, like it had been screwed up repeatedly before being smoothed out. Nerves. 

“Ambrose, who is this for?”

He doesn’t look at her, instead letting the floor take all his attention away. Who was she kidding, thinking that he was a capable young man earlier, when the child still stood before her. That was the Chantry’s influence, right there. Making mages afraid, for even the smallest task. “Ambrose,” she says once more, voice soft, a try at comfort. “Who is this for?”

Mumbling, Ambrose takes the form back. Almost walks out the door, before returning to stand before her again. Not once, does he look at Irving, but everything about him says he was acutely aware the First Enchanter was staring. And how could Irving not, with how Ambrose was behaving. 

“It’s for Jowan.” Swallowing thickly, Ambrose finally turns to Irving. “He wants to break his phylactery.”


	4. Chapter 4

Basilia does not know how she allows herself into such situations.

Winded and bruised, she falls several steps behind Jowan and Lily. At least Jowan was no longer eyeing her with suspicion, the closer they drew to their destination. Lily, however, remained on guard. Wise girl, but not very bright. If only they knew, Basilia mused, another door sealing behind them. 

Ambrose had been beside himself with such a suggestion from Jowan. Whilst Irving had maintained a steady calm, piecing together what Jowan had planned to do, Basilia tended to Ambrose’s frayed nerves. Quite a charming plan, in fact: break the enchantments on the door, and simply walk in as if nothing would alert those above to such a thing. Basilia had thought that she had spoken of the basement, in some of her classes, and how everything in the Tower linked.

Jowan must have skipped a lesson, as now here they were, and Irving was out there, contingent of templars with him. They had both applauded Ambrose, for coming forward, but he admitted he felt dirty, betraying Jowan’s trust. 

She hadn’t had the heart to remind him that if he himself had gone through with such a foolish plan, they might have perished to the statues underneath, or died by templar hands. There was only one way this was going to end, and Basilia hoped that Irving held up on his end for her sake. 

“We’re getting near it,” Jowan speaks, and it’s not aimed at her. Of course not. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Basilia simply leans on her staff for some support. 

By the Maker, she was far too out of shape for such fights like these. Completely overestimated the amount of mana she would have to draw on for the last part, scraping the bottom of her reserves. “Jowan, just allow a moment for me to regain some strength.” Whether or not the beg in her voice was apparent, the floor was beginning to give way.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some great mage?” Malice in his voice, brought on by the self-esteem issues Ambrose had divulged. This was all one trip to prove he was the better. 

Basilia bit back. “A ‘great mage’ is still capable of needing time to breathe.” 

Lily had told her it was a fear of tranquility, for the most part. When Ambrose had taken her to the Chantry, there had been quite a few words shared. Basilia had stood off to the side, allowing Ambrose to convince Jowan that Basilia truly wanted to help. During that time, Lily had tried to speak to her. Strange, for the girl who still continued to look upon her with suspicion, to approach her then. 

This is what they wanted to do for _love_. Basilia remembers being so blindly in love like they were, that their stations didn’t matter. Her heart was still warm, but when she saw how Jowan and Lily held hands as they walked up the stairs, she had to look away. 

Of course she was to be the one to tear them apart. Of course, of course…

Jowan does not hesitate, rifling through phylacteries, a wisp hovering over his head. Lily stood at his shoulder, nervous and hands clasped together. A prayer, perhaps? Or maybe the beginnings of guilt and a realisation at what this would mean. 

Basilia wanted to shake Jowan, to tell him that tranquility was not on the table. Not yet. Those books left out had been bait, and he had taken it, but Irving believed in him. Soon, he would become a harrowed mage soon enough, but patience, he only had to practice _patience_. 

The glass shatters. Jowan stares at his hands, a newfound sense of relief and freedom apparent in how he smiles, practically gleams. Oh, Jowan. It was all over now. 

Had he not broken his phylactery, they could have waved this off as a minor indiscretion. But now, now they were at the crossroads. 

“Let us leave, then, if you are finished.”

“Why isn’t Ambrose’s phylactery here?” it’s Lily who asks the question, finger running over names that illuminate on the glass when touched. Etched into an age old tradition, a finer kind of leash. Basilia does not feel a resentment at such a fact, and leads the way ahead.

Jowan answers without missing a beat, lines almost leading Basilia to believe he had studied this thoroughly. “His would’ve been sent to Denerim already. After you go through your Harrowing, they send it away to be stored.” 

“So all phylacteries eventually end up in Denerim?”

“Save for some,” Basilia has to add. She can practically feel the glare aimed at her shoulders.

“If the Chantry there was ever destroyed, almost all mages in Ferelden would be free.” A pause, and Basilia can feel the question lining up before he fired it. “Would you destroy yours, Basilia?”

“Jowan, don’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answer to.”

“That is what Irving’s lapdog would say,” it’s a mumble, but it echoes on the walls. 

She stops herself from smiling. “If only you knew, Jowan. If only.”

“What does that mean?”

Had she given it away? No, maybe not. There were no further questions, only a deafening silence as they climbed the last set of stairs. Hopefully, Ambrose would be smart enough to hide somewhere until this blew over. Gossip would start, of course, but it would be synonymous with the words ‘blood mage’, and any mage wise enough would know it was not something to be taken lightly.

The door opens. Swords are brandished. Lily lets out a small shout at the sight of templars before them. At Irving’s beckoning, Basilia steps to the side, edging out the way. Surely they knew that she was not the enemy.

Greagoir talks, but that’s where time stops. Basilia does not remember the rest, not the surge of magic, originating from Jowan’s hand, nor the screams from Lily for him to stop. Those are little bits of information given later, when she was packing her bag. 

No, Basilia remembers waking on the floor, Greagoir standing over her, sword at her throat. Accomplice, he says, and Irving tries to talk him down. After all, Basilia had come to him with such knowledge. It was Irving who told them to wait outside the basement’s doors. Basilia could feel her eyes well, just a little, just enough, as she begged Greagoir to please, listen to him. Irving was telling the _truth_. 

“Please, Greagoir…” the words are not much louder than a whisper. Fear. Basilia could not remember the last time she had felt such _fear_. The sword gleamed in the light of the hall, smooth and sharpened, as if waiting for her. Apprentices used to whisper templars would take care with their swords, always ready at a moment’s notice for the worst. But that was gossip, mixed in with giggles about swords and care. Now, it was the cold reality. 

Basilia had always lived on the fringes of their concerns, except for a few times that resulted in little more than a raised brow and whispers in the night. But those times, no one had been able to prove it was her. No other mages spoke up to condemn her, and now it was her time to be judged, tried (executed). 

“I invoke the Right of Conscription for that mage.”

“You have no standing here, Warden.” Greagoir’s response is terse, pointed. Whilst the sword was not pressing against her throat as much as it had been, it still did not leave her eyesight. Almost like she was mesmerised with watching it’s trail through the air, making sure it didn’t stay too close.

Irving speaks next, just as his hand appears to help Basilia to her feet. “In times like these, Greagoir, the Warden has all the right.”

“ _I will not allow it!_ ” 

His voices cuts through the stone. But Duncan does not waver, he too coming to stand in front of Basilia. Greagoir talks, more on needing to prove that she was clear of a blood mage’s influence. Excuses, Irving called them, for there was no way to refuse the Right.

“Go, child, get your things.”

Basilia does not remember the walk to her quarters. Only the shouting that followed her, and how templars tried to take her by the arm, as if to lead her. She threw them off, a hiss maybe leaving her that she was no longer their charge. ‘A Warden’. Not the title she wanted, but they let her walk with nothing but eyes following.

Was she crying? Ambrose asks, catching her by surprise as she was bowed over her bed. It is him who takes over packing, grabbing random articles of clothing and shoving them inside her bag. “What happened, Basilia? Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” all Basilia can say, all she can _speak_ , are just apologies. Tumbling from her as she holds her hands to her chest, trying to stop them from shaking. I am _afraid_ , she wants to say. I don’t want to go _out there_.

(But I don’t have a life here anymore)

“I shouldn't have asked you. I should’ve gone down there with Jowan.”

“No! If I hadn’t gone… they could’ve killed you. _They would have_.”

Ambrose doesn’t listen to her, or maybe he just didn’t understand the gravity of her sentence. They would have slain him on the spot. A newly harrowed mage consorting with a blood mage? Greagoir would not have given Duncan a moment to even breathe, before striking a sword through Ambrose.

If only because had Ambrose not trusted her, he would not have gone to Irving. 

He carries her bag for her, as they walk out. Duncan was waiting by the entrance, Irving by his side with Greagoir nowhere to be seen. The only templars nearby were ones who shared the duties of guarding the door. Not a whisper of the gossips in the Tower followed, as if all had gone silent. A part of her expected to turn around and find stares following, but she could only swallow her fear, take her bag from Ambrose, and continue forward. From how Irving was staring, so levelly, she knew there was no going back.

Was this his plan all along, she could only ask herself. Basilia had thought that it was Ambrose they wanted to send along, not her. 

“Are you ready, Basilia?”

No. Everything about her said ‘no’. Of course she was not ready, how could she be? How could anyone be expected to be ready to be thrown to the wolves. “Yes, I am.” Basilia’s voice is not her own, coming from a place far, far away. A place where her confidence does not fail her, where her knees do not tremble, where she does not fear the unknown.

Tarquin is the one to open the door for them. Duncan and Irving say some words, but they do not process. Instead, she can only focus on the deep set of a brow, eyes dark. His jaw is as clenched as hers, but he holds himself tighter out of… _anger_? Nervous energy surrounds, diminishing just enough to let him unclench his jaw to speak as she drew closer. 

“I’ll look after him,” Tarquin promises her, and Basilia _almost_ believes him.

But she still says, “thank you,” squeezing his hand, noting how he was not wearing his gloves. Helm under his arm, and she can’t force herself to look in his eyes. All she could imagine was the fallout for this particular show. The other templar would no doubt tell Greagoir. They would send Tarquin to Jainen, or further this time. Never again would they meet. 

“Be safe,” Ambrose calls, as Tarquin holds an arm out in front of him, keeping him back, keeping him _safe_. “Write to me!” Words muffled by the doors being pulled shut once more. Duncan walking close, as they are guided over to the boats. 

 

Basilia does not remember the last time she had felt rain on her face.

 

 

_“I will, my sweet. I will.”_


End file.
